Read Online PsyCop 6: GhosTV by Jordan Castillo Price - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
Tags: mm
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“procedure”) had to be less if I was unarmed.
The guard showed me to a room. My brain was in overdrive trying to find Camp Hell connections—blue wall…blue wall…blue wall—but the room smelled different, felt different, which kept me from totally losing it. I heard Stefan’s voice in my head, counting me down, calm and relaxed, deep and melodic, reassuring me that I was in the present, and Krimski couldn’t hurt me. And I knew it was bad if I was dredging up memories of goddamn Stefan for comfort.
“A federal agent has been summoned,” the guard told me, “and there won’t be any female guards present.”
And that was supposed to make me feel better?
Fuck.
Chapter 7
There was a built-in bench along one wall of the windowless room, and that was it. Not even a hook to hang my clothes. Even though my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat, I left my jacket on, sat down on the bench and jammed my face between my knees. The little black motes dancing at the corners of my vision didn’t subside, but they did stop swarming toward the center.
A big part of me wanted to just go along with the airport guards, because I’d survived this long by going with the flow, letting my body be incarcerated, sleep-starved and drugged, but not my mind, never my mind. What’re they gonna see? A skinny naked guy. So fucking what?
That’s how I tried to talk myself into complying with them. Only I wasn’t twenty-three anymore. And I just couldn’t do it.
Time expanded for me. I could’ve been sitting there for hours with my head between my knees. Days. Weeks. Only some small part of my brain, some bundle of neurons that still had a sketchy sense of temporal reality, told me it was more like minutes.
There was a tap on the door. I looked at it, baffled. Someone was knocking? Worse—it was a “shave and a haircut” knock. I stared at the sturdy metal doorknob—sure that it was just some kind of fucked-up coincidence, that my battered brain had heard it wrong—and I waited for it.
Two bits.
The doorknob turned.
A man in sunglasses and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up let himself in. At first I figured they’d dragged some pothead out of line and accidentally stuffed him in the same room with me. Then he slid his mirrored shades down his nose, and I recognized his eyes. Con Dreyfuss, the FPMP’s head honcho of the Midwest.
“I wondered if you’d actually strip or not.” He plunked down on the bench beside me, dug a small bottle of water out of his pocket and offered it to me.
I stared at it like he was handing me a live snake. “Who’re you supposed to be? The Unabomber?”
“Whoa. It takes a guy with major cajones to say the word ‘bomb’ at an airport. But both you and I know you’re a lot pluckier than you let on.”
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“I’d tell you…but then I’d have to kill you.” He said it with a big, cheesy smile…which didn’t really reassure me. “Listen, Bayne, you’ve had a few months to read up on exorcisms. Tell me—how’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“Uh-huh. I thought as much.” Dreyfuss peeled off his wraparound shades and dangled them between his bent knees. “The HVAC system is still on the fritz in my office. Cold spots. I’m thinking that maybe now that you’ve brushed up on your medium skills, you could convince the causes of said cold spots to vamoose.”
“You can’t talk to them. They’re repeaters.”
Behind Dreyfuss’ easy smile, his eyes grew hungry. I recognized that look from Jacob, who got very still the minute I started talking ghost, in hopes of not spooking me out of finishing my thought. When Dreyfuss saw I had nothing more to say, he waved the water bottle at me, as if maybe I’d somehow managed to not see it. I ignored it.
He shrugged, cracked the seal, and downed it in a few pulls. Then he said, “You’re pretty calm, cool and collected for a guy who’s about to have some stranger rooting around for drugs
The guard showed me to a room. My brain was in overdrive trying to find Camp Hell connections—blue wall…blue wall…blue wall—but the room smelled different, felt different, which kept me from totally losing it. I heard Stefan’s voice in my head, counting me down, calm and relaxed, deep and melodic, reassuring me that I was in the present, and Krimski couldn’t hurt me. And I knew it was bad if I was dredging up memories of goddamn Stefan for comfort.
“A federal agent has been summoned,” the guard told me, “and there won’t be any female guards present.”
And that was supposed to make me feel better?
Fuck.
Chapter 7
There was a built-in bench along one wall of the windowless room, and that was it. Not even a hook to hang my clothes. Even though my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat, I left my jacket on, sat down on the bench and jammed my face between my knees. The little black motes dancing at the corners of my vision didn’t subside, but they did stop swarming toward the center.
A big part of me wanted to just go along with the airport guards, because I’d survived this long by going with the flow, letting my body be incarcerated, sleep-starved and drugged, but not my mind, never my mind. What’re they gonna see? A skinny naked guy. So fucking what?
That’s how I tried to talk myself into complying with them. Only I wasn’t twenty-three anymore. And I just couldn’t do it.
Time expanded for me. I could’ve been sitting there for hours with my head between my knees. Days. Weeks. Only some small part of my brain, some bundle of neurons that still had a sketchy sense of temporal reality, told me it was more like minutes.
There was a tap on the door. I looked at it, baffled. Someone was knocking? Worse—it was a “shave and a haircut” knock. I stared at the sturdy metal doorknob—sure that it was just some kind of fucked-up coincidence, that my battered brain had heard it wrong—and I waited for it.
Two bits.
The doorknob turned.
A man in sunglasses and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up let himself in. At first I figured they’d dragged some pothead out of line and accidentally stuffed him in the same room with me. Then he slid his mirrored shades down his nose, and I recognized his eyes. Con Dreyfuss, the FPMP’s head honcho of the Midwest.
“I wondered if you’d actually strip or not.” He plunked down on the bench beside me, dug a small bottle of water out of his pocket and offered it to me.
I stared at it like he was handing me a live snake. “Who’re you supposed to be? The Unabomber?”
“Whoa. It takes a guy with major cajones to say the word ‘bomb’ at an airport. But both you and I know you’re a lot pluckier than you let on.”
“How’d you get here so fast?”
“I’d tell you…but then I’d have to kill you.” He said it with a big, cheesy smile…which didn’t really reassure me. “Listen, Bayne, you’ve had a few months to read up on exorcisms. Tell me—how’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“Uh-huh. I thought as much.” Dreyfuss peeled off his wraparound shades and dangled them between his bent knees. “The HVAC system is still on the fritz in my office. Cold spots. I’m thinking that maybe now that you’ve brushed up on your medium skills, you could convince the causes of said cold spots to vamoose.”
“You can’t talk to them. They’re repeaters.”
Behind Dreyfuss’ easy smile, his eyes grew hungry. I recognized that look from Jacob, who got very still the minute I started talking ghost, in hopes of not spooking me out of finishing my thought. When Dreyfuss saw I had nothing more to say, he waved the water bottle at me, as if maybe I’d somehow managed to not see it. I ignored it.
He shrugged, cracked the seal, and downed it in a few pulls. Then he said, “You’re pretty calm, cool and collected for a guy who’s about to have some stranger rooting around for drugs
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